


Le Danseur

by LilRinnieB



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Ballet, M/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 23:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilRinnieB/pseuds/LilRinnieB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry knew that attending Hogwarts School of Music and Dance would help him achieve his dream of becoming a professional ballet dancer, but then lust-at-first-sight and an unfortunate misunderstanding put him at odds with the school's ballet master, Severus Snape, and Harry finds it harder and harder to focus on dancing and not on his teacher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction set in the Harry Potter universe – all recognisable characters and settings are the property of J. K. Rowling and her associates. No copyright infringement is intended. No profit is made from this work.
> 
> [This fic is directly inspired by an anonymous prompt for HP Cross Fest on livejournal: prompt #28 -- Harry wants to be a ballet dancer, but of course the Dursleys don't allow that, dancing is only for *nancy-boys*. Harry sneaks away for an audition to Hogwarts School of Music and Dance. Snape is one of his dance instructors; the strictest one.]
> 
> Warnings: non-magic, extreme AU (including some anachronisms, for those who notice that sort of thing), inevitable OOCness, light D/s, UST, filthy language, explicit sex, improper use of ribbons and elastics, dance belt fondling, and a highly inappropriate teacher/student relationship. Also, Harry is underage (17).

 

           Harry lay on his bed in a jumble of clean clothes that he hadn't bothered to fold and put away, staring glassily at the ceiling. He could hear the laugh track from some sitcom playing on the telly downstairs, joined here and there by the high-pitched whinny of his aunt Petunia or the deep guffaws of her husband, Vernon. Dudley, Harry's cousin, was off with his friends, no doubt harassing the elderly or stealing from someone smaller and weaker than him, his favourite forms of entertainment when he wasn't using Harry as his personal punching bag.

           With all of the Dursleys otherwise occupied, this was the perfect time for Harry to indulge in his own secret addiction, but his supplier was later than usual and withdrawal was starting to set in.

           _Tap, tap, tap._

           "Harry?"

           _Thump, thump, thump._

           "Harry Potter, open this window right now!"

           Harry shook himself out of his stupor and looked across his small, shabby bedroom towards the source of that incessant pounding. He had almost given up hope of getting his next fix, but joy soon replaced desperation as he spotted a pair of brown eyes peering in at him through the glass.

           _Finally_ , he thought. His last stash of contraband had been discovered and destroyed by his tyrant of an uncle, so he'd been more impatient than usual for Hermione Granger, his best friend and feeder of his addictions, to show up with a fresh supply of his favourite distraction.

           He opened the window with an enthusiasm that echoed in his bright green eyes, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he grinned at Hermione. "Did you get them?"

           "Yes, yes, I've got them tucked under my jumper."

           "I suppose that's as safe a place as any."

           "Very funny. It wasn't as if I had a choice," Hermione said crossly as she climbed through the window into Harry's bedroom. She'd been climbing up and down the tree that stood next to the Dursleys' house for so long that she'd mastered the art of sneaking into Harry's room undetected, her bushy brown hair free of stray leaves and hardly a scratch on her palms from gripping the rough bark of the tree's branches. She reached under her light blue jumper and pulled out three magazines. "I couldn't find any brown paper bags, so I had to improvise just in case your uncle caught me. His face turned ten shades of purple the last time he spotted me up that tree with a copy of _Modern Dancer_ under my arm."

           "Sorry about that," Harry said, but he wasn't really listening to her, having snatched the magazines out of her hands. He turned and walked back to his clothes-strewn bed, shoving the freshly-laundered shirts, trousers and dance-wear aside as he began flipping through the first magazine, his tense posture gradually relaxing into a satisfied slump with every page he turned.

           Hermione closed the window and dusted off her hands. "I don't have copies of these, but you can keep them anyway. I learned my lesson after the 'Sticky Page Incident' last month."

           "I told you, I had jam on my fingers."

           Hermione gave a disbelieving snort and cleared a seat for herself on Harry's bed, taking over the task of folding his clothes as she pulled a pile of tights, t-shirts and sweatpants into her lap. "Jam or not, you have to admit your fingers were selective in which pages they ruined -- not a sticky ballerina in sight, only scantily-clad _danseurs_ ... mostly dark-haired ones, come to think of it. Still looking for the male version of Eileen Prince, are we?"

           "If she were a bloke, she'd be perfect," Harry said with a sigh, looking up at the poster of the Polish-born ballerina that held a place of honour above his bed (Vernon allowed him to hang it on the basis that at least the poster was of a woman -- Harry's Baryshnikov poster had not fared so well). Dark of hair and eyes, the former prima ballerina and founder of the famous Hogsmeade Ballet Company struck an imposing arabesque, strong but graceful, displaying a fierceness in both her expression and her pose that had been distinctly male until Eileen came along and turned convention on its head. The features of her face were too strong to be pretty, from the bold slash of her mouth to her less-than-dainty nose, but the magnetism of her dark eyes mesmerized Harry. A war orphan, Eileen had been adopted by a British family who encouraged her dreams of dancing, and she'd emerged as one of the greatest ballerinas of her generation. Harry, an orphan himself after his parents died in a car accident when he was a baby, looked up to her as his ideal -- ideal dancer, that is, since he'd known for a long time that he'd never be turned on by a tutu. Eileen was old enough to be his grandmother by now, so there would have been road blocks to their romance even if Harry hadn't been batting for the other team, but he still held out hope for a man with all her admirable qualities, especially her love of ballet.

           "Maybe you'll find someone like her at Hogwarts." Hermione tried to keep her tone light, but the mere mention of the famous school for the performing arts had Harry tensing up again.

           " _If_ I get in, you mean."

           Auditions for the new school year were taking place that Saturday, and Hermione had promised to be Harry's alibi so he could get out of the house and take his chances with all the other ambitious teenagers who wanted to study at Hogwarts School of Music and Dance. He'd tried to audition the previous summer since the upper class at Hogwarts started at age 16, but his Aunt Petunia had seen him shimmying down the tree trunk with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and his great escape was foiled. Vernon had threatened to cut the tree down if Harry didn't go back inside and put 'that damned dancing nonsense' out of his head. He'd complied with the first part, but telling Harry to forget about dancing was like telling him not to breathe.

           "We're going to ace our auditions," Hermione said firmly. "We've both worked too hard to give up now. All the sneaking around and lying we did so you could attend classes ... was that for nothing? Those people you live with -- I hate to call them your family -- they've done nothing but make your life hell all these years and they can't even let you have the one thing that makes you happy. How many times have you been too sore to dance because your awful cousin and his gang of imbeciles beat you up before you could get to practice? How many times did your Uncle threaten to chuck you out of this house for even mentioning the word 'ballet' because he's convinced that dancing turned you gay and the only way to turn you 'back to normal' is to stop you from doing what you love? The hurt and humiliation -- talk about suffering for your art! Do you remember when your Aunt found one of your dance belts?"

           Harry cringed. He'd carelessly left one of his dance belts on his bed, and when Petunia came in with fresh sheets for Harry's bed, she'd picked it up out of curiosity. Dance belts were the ballet version of athletic cups, padded in front and nothing but a thong in the back, and Petunia hadn't known what to make of it except to surmise that what she held in her hands was some accessory in sexual role-play ("that nasty business with all the letters," Vernon would later say, which Harry guessed to mean bdsm), or at the very least it was the gay male version of fancy knickers, and Petunia had run screaming from the room holding the offending article in front of her as if she were holding a rat by the tail.

           "What sort of filthy boy are we raising under our roof?" Harry mimicked Petunia's high-pitched squeal as he moved on to the next magazine. " _Hmph_ , I should be so lucky. With all the chores they give me, I barely have time to sneak out to class. Dancing on the sly is hard enough without juggling a secret boyfriend at the same time."

           "You won't have to keep secrets at Hogwarts," Hermione said, steering Harry's focus away from sex and back to what she felt was the more important topic. "This is your opportunity to get free of them, Harry."

           Harry shrugged. "I'll be eighteen next year. That's free enough for me ... and I'll dance anywhere they'll have me, whether it's on the finest stages in Europe or on the warped floor of Mrs. Figg's studio. Hogwarts would be ... well, it'd be fantastic ... but if I don't get in, it won't mean I'll never dance again."

           "Well, I didn't sacrifice my childhood for violin lessons just so I could play _Ave Maria_ for my Aunt Agatha every Christmas." Hermione slapped another folded t-shirt down onto the neat pile she was making, remaining organized even under the influence of passionate ambition. "There are no 'ifs' here. We _are_ getting into that school, Harry. We made a promise, remember?”

           Harry smirked and turned another page in the magazine. “When we were _six_.”

           “It was a verbal contract,” Hermione insisted.

           “Between _six-year-olds_ ,” Harry countered again without looking up from an article on limbering exercises, but he couldn’t hold back his smile as he recalled the childish promise they’d made to each other.

_When we grow up, we’ll go to Hogwarts together._ They’d decided their futures after Hermione’s parents took them on a trip to Hogsmeade to see a Christmas production of _The Nutcracker_ performed by students from the school. Hermione had fallen in love with Tchaikovsky’s music, and Harry had been swept away by the beauty, grace and strength of the dancing. He was practicing wobbly pirouettes as soon as he got home, much to the dismay of his aunt and uncle.

           “I was seven, actually,” Hermione said as she eased herself off of the bed, careful not to jostle the stacks of neatly-folded laundry she'd left behind her, "which means I'm older and wiser than you, so if I say we're getting in, we're getting in."

           "You know, one day you're not going to be so smug about the fact that you're older than me," Harry warned her with a grin, finally looking up from the magazine. His smile slipped when he saw her walking towards the window. "Hey, are you leaving already?"

           "I did my duty smuggling you those magazines. I think it's better if I leave you alone to ... _enjoy the articles_." She batted away the bundled pair of socks that Harry threw at her, laughing as she opened the window and straddled the windowsill. "Look, I'd love to stay, but I have to practice as much as I can before Saturday. What about you? Didn't Mrs. Figg give you a key to the studio so you could practice whenever you want? Sometimes I think she's more excited about this audition than you are."

           Mrs. Figg was Harry’s neighbour and dance teacher. Whenever the Dursleys went out of town on holiday or took Dudley someplace special, they always left Harry with Mrs. Figg. For the first six years of his life, he’d only seen her as the crazy old lady with an odd penchant for turbans and too many cats, but after his life-changing experience at the ballet he’d discovered a wonderful secret about his baby-sitter: _she was a dancer_. Granted, time had taken its toll on Arabella Figg, and she couldn’t bend and sway like she once did, but when she caught Harry pirouetting his way down her hallway during one of his stays, she’d promptly bundled him up and walked him over to the tiny dance studio she owned and taught at part-time. There, she’d started him on the basics, from the various positions of the feet and arms, to how to spot himself during his turns so he didn’t get so dizzy.

           _“A natural dancer, that’s what you are,”_ she’d told him, and from then on she’d made every excuse she could think of to get him out of the Dursleys' house and into dance classes. His attendance was haphazard in the beginning; being so young, he was entirely dependent on the whims of the Dursleys as to whether he got out of the house or was forced to stay inside, pining away for the small studio with its warped wooden floors and mirror-lined walls. As he got older, it was easier for Harry to sneak out of the house without Mrs. Figg’s help. Sometimes he resorted to using Hermione as his cover, claiming they wanted to study together, and his uncle was more than happy to believe Harry was finally acting ‘normal’ by spending so much time with a girl. His lessons were free, thanks to Mrs. Figg, and she supplied him with everything he needed but could never afford to buy for himself: tights, shoes, even the infamous dance belts.

_“If your mother was alive, I'm sure she’d want this for you,”_ she’d explained once when Harry asked her why she went out of her way for him. _“This is what you were meant to do, Harry.”_

           Harry didn’t know much about his parents – the Dursleys rarely mentioned the Potters unless it was to complain about being saddled with Harry after their deaths, and Mrs. Figg only responded to his queries with sad looks and long sighs – but hearing her say that his mother would approve of his choice to be a dancer really stuck with Harry. He liked to think that becoming a dancer would have made his parents proud of him had they been alive, especially when his aunt and uncle treated his love of dance like a shameful addiction, as if ballet was only a step or two up from cocaine or heroin. Mrs. Figg’s encouragement kept him going on those days when his life with the Dursleys made him want to give up.

           "She did give me a key, but I can't go to the studio until the last evening class is over, and that won't be for another two hours. I'll just wait until after everyone here is asleep."

           "I hate the thought of you creeping out of the house in the dark of night. You should just come stay at my house until Saturday; then you can practice at a decent hour and no one will scream at you if they catch you in your tights. You're riding with us to the audition anyway, and Mum and Dad adore you. They'd love to have you over."

           Harry laughed. "And listen to you sawing away at that violin of yours morning, noon and night? No thanks. When would I get any sleep?"

           "I'm sure Dad has an extra set of earplugs lying around," Hermione said dryly.

           Harry chuckled, tempted by the offer, but he hated being a bother to Hermione's parents after they'd been so kind and generous to him over the years. In the back of his mind, he always expected them to get sick of him, and he couldn't help but be amazed when they kept welcoming him back with open arms. "Let's see how tonight goes before I commit to running away from home. I have a feeling that once I'm gone, Vernon's going to change the locks, and I can't very well move into your parents' house if this audition goes badly."

           "Are you crazy? You'd be the son they've always wanted! Well, whatever you decide, this is the last time I'm climbing this tree of yours. Hogwarts won't want a violin player with a broken arm. Give me a ring if you change your mind about staying over. You could always imply that we're sleeping together if your aunt and uncle make a fuss. I'm sure they'd send you off in style if they thought you were having it off with the girl next door." Hermione winked at him before carefully manoeuvring her body out of the window and back into the tree to begin her descent. She gave a quick wave before climbing down the tree and out of sight.

           Harry sighed and went back to reading his magazines, but the initial rush of pleasure he got from reading them had faded now and he was starting to feel restless again. It was nothing that some time in the dance studio wouldn't fix, but it would be several agonizing hours before it was safe for him to sneak out. Hermione's offer was looking better and better ...

           He tossed the magazines aside and ran to the window, intending to call after Hermione to let her know he was coming over, but when he looked outside he saw his friend grinning up at him from the bottom of the tree, just waiting for him to appear.

           "Took you long enough."

           _How does she always know?_ Harry wondered, a little spooked by Hermione's eerie ability to read his mind.

           "Pack whatever you need and throw it down to me. I suggest you take the tree instead of the stairs on your way out. We wouldn't want to give your aunt and uncle a chance to say no to our plan, would we? I'll have Mum call them when we get to my house. I'm sure she'll make them see reason. She's lovely, my mum, but she's got a scary knack for intimidating people into doing what she wants."

           "Yeah, Aunt Petunia's terrified of her," Harry conceded with a laugh. "Give me five minutes and I'll meet you on the ground."

           "Whatever you say, Juliet," Hermione joked, clearly getting a kick out of this backwards balcony scene they were acting out. "Just don't hurt yourself on the way down. Hogwarts doesn't want _danseurs_ with broken legs, either."

           Five minutes later, they were racing towards Hermione's house, as giddy as they'd been eleven years ago when one performance of _The Nutcracker_ had changed both of their lives forever.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

           "Lucky thirteen," Harry said glumly as he pinned the number into place on the front of his shirt. Hermione and her parents had dropped him off at the north entrance to the Lupin Arts Centre where the dance studios were located and where his audition would take place. The musical auditions were taking place at the opposite end of the enormous building, so he and Hermione wouldn't be able to see each other until after the auditions were over.

           Many of the auditioning dancers gathered in the lobby wore black dancewear embroidered with the initials HSMD that classified them as students of the very school Harry wanted so desperately to attend. There were two levels of instruction at Hogwarts: a lower class that started at age 11 that was open to anyone who could pay the fees, and an upper class that started at age 16 that only accepted students by audition. Harry couldn't help but be intimidated by his competitors, many of whom were a year younger than him and had benefited from five years of Hogwarts' schooling.

           The Hogwarts students gathered together in little circles, chatting and hugging their hellos, sharing their excitement over an audition that they'd been preparing for since they were eleven. It was easy to tell which dancers weren't Hogwarts-trained: like Harry, they stood alone, backs against the wall, sombre and silent. Only a blonde girl in a rainbow-coloured leotard looked completely comfortable with her surroundings, despite sticking out the most as the sole splash of colour amid a sea of black, white and grey

           A trio of dancers near Harry were speculating over the upcoming school year. "I wonder who will be the guest teacher this year. Did they announce it yet?"

           "I hope it's not another Weasley. The last one was gorgeous, sure, but all he taught was tap."

           "Shhh, Ginny's standing right over there."

           "Why isn't she upstairs with the other tappers?"

           "She wants ballet, not tap."

           "A Weasley who doesn't tap? What next? A Malfoy who break-dances?"

           The group giggled at their private joke, and Harry almost stopped eavesdropping until he heard one of the girls whispering a name very familiar to him.

           "... the guest teacher is definitely Sirius Black. Pansy heard it from Draco."

           "Oooo, I hope it's true!"

           "I won't believe it until I see it."

           _Sirius Black._ Harry had read countless articles about the famous choreographer in his magazines. Though a talented dancer, Sirius had chosen a career behind the scenes, choreographing for several prominent ballet companies. Dancers loved to work with him; audiences flocked to see his latest creation. The last article Harry had read on Sirius revealed that he was working with an American ballet company, but that had been a few months ago. The possibility of working with Sirius Black ...

           The enormity of what this audition could mean for his future finally hit Harry, knocking the breath right out of him. _Fresh air, just need some fresh air_ , he thought to himself as he walked to the doors and stepped outside. The sky was dark and heavy with clouds, the air thick with the promise of rain. Harry shrugged into his jacket, more out of habit than fear of getting wet, and zipped it up with a nervous jerk of his hand.

           _What am I doing here?_ he wondered as he sat on a bench outside the building, hugging his bag against his chest. The old anxieties were hitting him -- how could he possibly compete with the other dancers when most of them had probably been taking regular dance classes since they were old enough to walk? Mrs. Figg had been a superb teacher when it came to the basics of ballet, but Harry wondered if not having a male teacher to guide him would be a strike against him. Was he good enough to work with someone like Sirius Black?

           Nature seemed to give him his answer when, after only a soft rumble of thunder as warning, the clouds finally burst open, raindrops falling with a soft patter against Harry's head and shoulders. He dropped his bag to the pavement with a wry laugh and leaned back with eyes closed, letting the cool drops fall on his face, as if the rain could dissolve all those pesky doubts crowding his brain.

           "Are you ill?"

           Harry sat back up in surprise, wiping the sleeve of his jacket over his face. He fought the urge to rub the water out of his eyes as he blinked up through blurry contacts at the tall, dark shadow that had just spoken.

           "If you're not feeling well, I can help you into the building." The voice addressing him was pleasantly low, a smooth, sultry baritone that sent Harry's pulse inexplicably racing. The man moved closer to Harry and held his umbrella over them both.

           Harry squinted up at the face peering down at him, able to focus better now that rain wasn't trickling into his eyes. He could make out a pair of dark, piercing eyes set in the pale, thin face of an older man, sharp, angular features, stringy black hair, a hawkish nose ... in all, a face that seemed deeply familiar to him, though it took him a minute to figure out why ...

           The man frowned as Harry stared intently at him without speaking. "If you feel I'm intruding on your privacy, I can leave. I only thought --"

           "That's it!" Harry pounded his fist on the bench as the answer popped into his head. The man raised a brow, watching him warily, but Harry was happily taking inventory of all the similarities between the man standing in front of him and the poster of Eileen Prince on the wall of his bedroom.

_A male version ... he really exists_ , he thought, awestruck by what he was seeing.

           "That's what? Did I miss part of this conversation?" Even when terse with frustration, the man's voice sent shivers up Harry's spine.

           "Sorry, sorry," Harry said, eager to ingratiate himself now that he'd made such a rare discovery. "I'm not ill, and you're not intruding on my privacy."

           Hearing such a sensible reply after Harry's previous bouts of silence or shouting appeared to reassure the man that he was, in fact, dealing with a sane person. "Are you waiting for someone?"

           _Yes, and he looks just like you_ , was Harry's immediate thought, but he shook his head 'no' instead while proceeding to give his companion a good once-over.

           "It's raining," the man said, still holding his umbrella over Harry's head as well as his own. His thin lips tightened into a smirk, the only outward sign he gave that he was aware of Harry looking him up and down.

           "Yes." Harry stared at him for several more seconds before the man's meaning struck him and he shot up from his seat on the bench. "Yes, it's raining. Which means I'm getting wet. I just ... I wanted to get some fresh air ... before ... when it wasn't raining." He realised he was moving swiftly into 'babble mode' and cleared his throat. "I should probably go back inside."

           "That is the recommended course of action in a rainstorm." The man tilted his head, his mouth relaxing into a softer line -- not quite a smile, but close enough to coax a grin from Harry in return. Though they talked of getting out of the rain, neither of them seemed to be in a hurry to start moving. The man leaned in under the umbrella, murmuring something about raindrops hitting the back of his neck, but at the same time he drew back the hand holding his umbrella, forcing Harry to step closer as well or risk getting wet again. Even to someone as unschooled in seduction as Harry, it gave every indication of being a calculated move to shrink that small gap of space between their bodies.

           "My name is Harry," he said, the words gushing out of him in one breathy whoosh, unable to restrain his excitement. He felt like he'd just come out of a long run of _chaîné_ turns without spotting, that dizzy but elated feeling of having spun around and around as fast as he could across the dance floor with nothing to focus on to keep him centred, half a step from falling but too giddy to care. He'd never been good at bottling up his emotions, which was wonderful when he was dancing but disastrous on those occasions when a poker face might have served him better. It just wasn't in his nature to hold himself back.

           "Harry," the man repeated in that resonant baritone, and Harry worried that just hearing his name on this man's lips was going to have him blushing bright red. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Severus."

           Harry laughed, then quickly converted it into a cough. "Severus? That's a little ..."

           "... unusual? So I've been told." All traces of softness vanished from Severus's mouth as his lips twisted into a frown.

           "No, it suits you somehow," Harry said, warming up to the name. A common name like Matthew or William just wouldn't fit. "Old family name, I suppose?"

           Severus nodded, a tad distant now as he answered, "After my grandfather, on my mother's side." He paused and narrowed his eyes, as if waiting for Harry to ask him something else, but Harry's guileless grin and eager expression must have soothed whatever nerve his question had struck in Severus as he suddenly picked up Harry's bag and nodded towards the building. "Shall we?"

           "Oh, you don't have to -- " Harry protested the abduction of his bag, but Severus was already walking towards the school, leaving Harry to play catch-up through the rain. He noticed that his new acquaintance walked with a slight limp, favouring his right leg.

           "Are you a member of the dance corps here?" Severus asked as they walked. "I don't recall seeing you in any of the recent productions, so you must be quite new. Weren't all rehearsals cancelled so they could hold Hogwarts auditions?"

           Harry ducked his head to hide his smile. Severus thought he was a dancer for the Centre? _Bet he thinks I'm older than seventeen, too_ , he thought. Well, why correct him? Who would it hurt?

           "I thought there might be an empty room open for practice," he said, cheeks burning, his lie written all over his face, but Severus wasn't looking at him.

           "We're taking over all the classrooms on the first two floors, but there might be an open room in the basement."

           Harry felt the first stirring of dread in his stomach. "We?"

           "Hogwarts School of Music and Dance. I'm Head of Boys in the Ballet department."

           _Of course he is. With my rotten luck, who else would he be?_ Harry's mind raced as he nervously toyed with the zipper on his jacket. He was only seconds away from being caught in a lie by the one person he needed to impress. Should he come clean right away?

           Severus turned around when he realized Harry was lagging behind. He seemed to mistake the apprehension on Harry's face for something else, a smirk on his lips. "These auditions will take up most of my day, but I'll be remaining in the city for a week or so. Perhaps we could see more of each other?"

           For one brief moment, Harry seriously contemplated skipping the audition just so he could accept Severus's invitation, but then he thought of all the hard work he'd put in to get to this point, of Mrs. Figg's faith in him and all her sacrifices, and of his parents, and what they might think of him giving up on Hogwarts for what would probably end up being a short fling. A hot, passionate fling with the man of his dreams ... _No! Resist temptation_ , Harry scolded himself.

           "Severus, I ..."

           "No need to be shy," Severus murmured, tipping Harry's chin upward, glancing down at Harry's mouth, then back up at his eyes. "Tell me your last name so I know who to ask for when I'm through here."

           "Potter," Harry answered obediently. "My last name is Potter."

           Severus snatched his hand back from Harry's chin as if he'd been burned. "Harry ... _Potter_?"

           Harry couldn't comprehend that look of horrified surprise on Severus's face, nor could he understand why Severus was suddenly scrutinizing every feature of his face, a reversal of earlier when Harry had studied Severus to compare him to Eileen. Severus's dark eyes narrowed in recognition as he glared into Harry's green ones.

           "Damn it, it's true," he heard Severus mutter.

           "I didn't realize you were ... so I didn't exactly tell the truth when I ... and then you said we could ..." Words tumbled out of Harry's mouth in a jumble without making much sense, so he unzipped his jacket so Severus could see the number pinned on his chest. "I swear, I didn't know that you were from Hogwarts, and I really wanted to see you again so I ..."

           Severus shoved Harry's bag into his arms, then he pointed at the door. "Just get inside. The audition is about to start."

           Harry hesitated, but the cold, angry stare Severus directed his way lit a fire under his feet and he hurried inside the building. Most of the dancers had already gone inside the large classroom being used for the audition, so he shed his jacket, changed his shoes, and slipped into the classroom to mingle with the other Hogwarts hopefuls, desperate to put the entire shameful episode behind him. A tall, blond man stood near the front of the room, eyeing the room with what appeared to be icy disdain, though his gaze would soften whenever it fell on one of the more attractive female dancers.

           Severus entered the room a few minutes later, closing the door behind him. The blond man raised a single elegant brow as Severus crossed the room towards him.

           "Severus? Why are you here? I thought Aurora was coming today."

           "Longbottom dropped his tuba on her foot after the orchestra's summer concert. I warned Dumbledore that it was foolish to give that boy any instrument heavier than a triangle, but his hearing is as selective as it's always been."

           "Well, so much for female representation among the staff." The blond man clapped his hands to restore order to the room, then introduced himself to the dancers.

           "For the unfortunate few among you who are unaware of who I am, my name is Lucius Malfoy, formerly an étoile of the Paris Opera Ballet and a proud alumnus of the very school you are auditioning to attend. You will find that some of your teachers require a certain amount of formality and decorum in the classroom," he looked meaningfully at Severus, "but please, call me Lucius," he said with a flash of white teeth. Harry could practically hear the hearts of the female dancers melting under such a heavy dose of charisma -- and even Harry suffered a twinge or two of attraction to the sophisticated ballet master, though nothing compared to what he'd felt while talking to Severus.

           "I am the one who holds your fate in my hands. As Artistic Director of Dance at Hogwarts, I have the final say on whether any student is accepted or not. My standards are high, as we only take the best to be students of the upper class. Even students who were enrolled in the lower class for the full five years must audition, so we don't play favourites..," a cough from Snape interrupted him, and Lucius inclined his head with a sly smile to clarify, "... well, not often."

           "My colleague here, Severus Snape, will be conducting your warm-ups and centre work, and he will also be on the panel of judges that will aid me in my decision on who to accept. Our other judge is ... _detained_ ... but I expect him to join us shortly. He will teach you a brief solo routine that you will perform for us as your audition piece. Any questions? No? Good. They're all yours, Severus."

           Harry took his place at the barre as they went through warm-ups, relieved to find that he could manage his _pliés_ and _relevés_ despite the chaos of his thoughts. Every exercise came to him automatically, and the familiar moves calmed him, reminding him of why he was there in the first place. He couldn't tell how he stood against the other dancers yet, not on _barre_ exercises alone, but he was pleased to notice that his _grands battements_ , where the dancer throws one leg as high as possible into the air, were much better than those of the dancers around him. Flexibility had always been one of his strengths.

           After _barre_ work came centre work. Snape took them through every possible step that might come up in their solo routine, from _pirouettes_ to _grand jetés_ , which were Harry's favourite, though to be fair he loved any ballet step that involved jumping. The sensation of being airborne, even for a second, had always held a special thrill for Harry. His turns were tight and fast, but twice he stumbled out of his _pirouettes_ because he put too much power into them and overstepped his balance. He glanced over at Severus the second time he flubbed the turn and saw that he was watching Harry intently, a disapproving scowl on his lips. After that, Harry looked only at the mirror, determined to concentrate on his dancing and not on the way Severus's jet-black eyes could turn his legs to jelly.

           He let out a sigh of relief when they were given a short break. The third teacher had yet to arrive, so Lucius instructed them to get something to drink and take it easy for a few minutes, since the hardest part of the day would be learning and performing the solo routine. Harry got a drink of water from the water fountain outside of the classroom, then went back inside to stretch some more, not wanting to lose focus and let his mind drift to topics that were strictly taboo now, such as the dance-toned physique of his would-be teacher. Lucius and Severus were wandering around the room conversing fluently in French, the words flying by too fast for Harry to even guess at what they were saying.

           "They're talking about you."

           Harry looked over his shoulder to see the blonde girl in the rainbow-coloured leotard, a blissful, Zen-like expression in her big grey eyes.

           "Pardon?"

           "Snape and Lucius, the teachers. They're talking about you. Do you want to know what they're saying?"

           Harry thought about just turning around and ignoring her, but he really wanted to know what Severus -- _no, Snape; it would have to be Snape from now on_ \-- might be saying about him. He nodded, then went back to his _relevés_ , pushing up onto the balls of his feet in _demi pointe_ , stretching his muscles in anticipation of the solo routine they would be learning. He felt the girl move up closer behind him, then she cleared her throat softly before launching into a lively translation, complete with dramatic, if not entirely accurate, voices for each man.

           "His strength and speed are amazing," she whispered in a low, honey-sweet imitation of Lucius's voice, oddly choosing to give his English a French accent even though they'd both heard him speaking unaccented English at the start of the audition. "Those jumps! Those turns!"

           Harry's spirits were raised only long enough for the girl to switch to Severus's voice, a deep, grumbly growl with enough venom behind it to poison all the praise Lucius had given Harry.

           "He fell out of two of those turns. Speed is nothing without control. He lacks discipline."

           Harry's confidence sank along with his heels as he lowered out of another _relevé_ , but then his interpreter took advantage of a moment of silence between the two teachers to interject in her own voice, "That's what he says, but he can't keep his eyes off of you when you're dancing. He doesn't even seem interested in any of the other dancers."

           Harry rose up in _relevé_ again. Was Snape paying so much attention to Harry because of his dancing? Or was he just keeping an eye on him after Harry's awkward lie?

           "Oh, wait, they're talking again." The girl laughed softly at something Lucius said, then translated, "Who better to discipline him than you, Severus? Or are you afraid you'll like it too much?" She chuckled, switching back to her normal voice. "See? Ooo, he must fancy you, then. Can't say I blame him. You've got the cutest arse ..."

           Harry's hands flew to his backside as he whipped around to glare at the girl. The last thing he wanted was some strange girl, no matter how helpfully well-versed in French, ogling him from behind.

           "No need to panic," she said, gesturing for him to turn back around as they were starting to draw attention from the rest of the room, including Snape and Lucius. She waited until he'd gone back to stretching before adding, "I can tell _my_ arse wouldn't do a thing for you, so I won't be tempting you with it any time soon."

           Harry grinned and shook his head. This girl was something else, alright. Bilingual _and_ intuitive ... and with a hint of crazy, but he could overlook that. He waited a few minutes before whispering over his shoulder, "Is that it? Have they stopped talking about me?"

           "Oh! I completely forgot." A short pause ensued, during which Harry could hear only a few snatches of rapid French from the two teachers. "Hmm, something about you dancing like ... like a lyrical lily? No, that can't be right ... lilies aren't lyrical at all. They're rather stationary, in fact ... unless you count tiger lilies, which I never do, of course."

           "Of course," Harry muttered with a roll of his eyes. Hearing the word 'lily' immediately brought thoughts of his mother to mind, but why would Lucius be talking to Snape about his mother? He recalled the recognition in Snape's dark eyes when he'd stared into Harry's green ones, and the way he'd flinched when he heard Harry's last name. Could there really be a connection there?

           Another pause before his companion continued, "I didn't quite catch that last part ... accident? Something about an accident. Master Snape doesn't want to talk about it, apparently. Ah well, now they've moved on to that red-headed girl ... they don't like her turn-out at all ... terrible! Terrible!" she mimicked in Lucius's husky accent, and Harry dropped out of _relevé_ , his heels hitting the floor with a thump, his head bowed against his chest as he fought back the laugh bubbling up in his throat.

           "Is there something wrong, Mr. Potter?" Snape asked him coldly from across the room.

           "No, sir," Harry answered in a voice choked with laughter. He waited until those piercing eyes were no longer boring holes into his skull before turning to face the girl. "My name's Harry, by the way."

           "Really? You look more like a Geoffrey to me," the girl said in a perfectly serious voice, but she smiled gently when giving him her own name, "I'm Luna. Luna Lovegood."

           Their conversation was cut short when a tall, thin man, dark-haired and good-looking, strode into the room as if he owned it, shaking his wet umbrella at Snape as he passed him. "Sorry I'm late, boys. Ran into Minerva out in the hallway and she wanted to hear all about my exploits in America. I had a hard time convincing her to let me go."

           "I highly doubt it," Snape said, brushing at the raindrops on his sleeve with disdain "I think it's far more likely that you cornered her and forced her to listen to you brag on and on about yourself, Black."

           "Save the bickering for later," Lucius scolded them, then he clapped his hands and beckoned all the dancers into the centre of the room. "Everyone, I'd like you to meet Sirius Black, our guest teacher at Hogwarts this year. He has worked with several foreign dance companies, and even did some choreography for the famous Cirque du Soleil. He will be teaching contemporary ballet as well as modern dance during his time at Hogwarts, and today he will be choreographing the solo routine for your audition. Please give him your full attention."

           Harry perked up. So the whispered rumours were true. Sirius Black himself was going to be teaching at Hogwarts. The added incentive of being taught by one of his idols cemented Harry's determination to ace his audition. He would never forgive himself if he let this opportunity slip by without a fight.

           "I'll try not to make it too difficult for you," Sirius was saying as he rolled his shoulders, limbering up as he threaded his way through the dancers to the front of the room. When he walked by Luna, he seemed to recognise her, barking out a laugh and swinging her up in his arms for a bear hug. "Well, if it isn't my favourite contortionist!"

           "I'm a ballerina," Luna corrected him with a serene smile, dangling in his embrace like a child's doll being cuddled by her owner. "Mum was the contortionist."

           "There's no shame in being a woman of many talents, Luna." Sirius winked at her as he set her back on her feet.

           He happened to glance over her shoulder at Harry, and the smile vanished from his face. That same haunted expression that Snape had worn upon hearing Harry's last name was now plastered across Sirius's face. Harry swallowed and took a step back. What was so terrible about him that it evoked such a strong response in people he didn't even know?

           "We don't have all day, Black," Snape snapped from his seat at the back of the room.

           Sirius shook himself and moved to the front of the room, all business as he addressed the dancers. "This will be a simple routine, nothing fancy. I'll go through it nice and slow the first time, then we'll speed it up and try it with the music."

           Harry pushed his confusion aside and concentrated on Sirius's movements. He'd always had a knack for picking up steps as soon as he'd seen them; memorizing this routine would be a snap for him. The only part he'd have to worry about was the series of pirouettes at the end -- after falling out of those two turns earlier, he had to be careful not to mess up again.

           After they practised the routine a few times with the music, all the dancers were sent back out into the hallway where they would wait for their number to be called. Harry only had twelve dancers between him and the most important audition of his life. The wait was torture.

           He turned to an unruffled Luna as she calmly stretched her arms over her head. He was curious to know how she and the guest teacher had grown to be so chummy. "How do you know Sirius Black?"

           "My family is full of acrobats and contortionists and even a few trapeze artists. I suppose you could call it our 'family business.' We were always on the move, travelling from one show to another, one country to the next. I first met Sirius when my mum and I were performing with Cirque du Soleil, and he became like an uncle to me. He even encouraged me to go to Hogwarts since he knew I wanted to be a dancer, but then Mum died and Dad was a wreck, so I decided to wait until I was old enough to audition for the upper class." She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "He's a horrible flirt and you look like his type, so watch yourself around him. He's always been the squishiest sort of teddy bear to me, but with your big green eyes and tight little arse, he's sure to be more like a dog in heat around you."

           Harry smiled weakly. Luna had a sweet, innocent beauty to her, rendering her almost childlike at times, but then she went and talked about Harry's arse, which apparently was both cute and tight, and turned his impression of her on its head. He had the distinct feeling that of the two of them, Luna was the more experienced, worldly one. Why else would she get all motherly on him and warn him about Sirius?

           "Do you think they'll make us wear those matching black leotards?" she asked, gesturing at the close-knit group of Hogwarts students standing a few feet away. "I'd feel just like a little black rain-cloud in one of those. Do you have any idea what that would do to my aura?"

           Harry confessed that he had no clue what effect, if any, monochrome dancewear would have on Luna's aura.

           "I suppose if my knickers were colourful, it would balance it all out ... but who likes to wear knickers underneath their tights and leotard? It's so constricting ..."

           Harry couldn't come up with a single name from the pro-knickers crowd, too busy biting back his laughter.

           "This must be what they call 'sacrificing for your art,'" she said wistfully. She indulged in a few seconds of knickers-induced sorrow before pulling Harry down with her to sit on the floor, patting his knee as she happily instructed him, "Now, tell me all about your life and don't skimp on the sexy parts."

           "If sexy is what you're after, you're asking the wrong guy," Harry warned her, but then he launched into a watered-down version of his life with the Dursleys, his friendship with Hermione and their vow to get into Hogwarts, his tutelage under Mrs. Figg, and all the things he loved about dancing. Luna responded with a few stories of her own, describing all the countries she'd visited and the thrill of performing for audiences all over the world.

           "It sounds amazing," Harry said, resting his head back against the wall with a sigh.

           "There's nothing like it," Luna agreed.

           "Number 13!"

           Harry shot to his feet. It was his turn already? Talking to Luna had distracted him so well that he hadn't even noticed the other twelve dancers shuffle in and out of the classroom. Luna reached up and squeezed his hand.

           "Don't worry, you'll be brilliant," she told him with a knowing smile.

           Harry grinned. Like her smile, Luna's unshakeable confidence was contagious. He took a deep breath, then walked into the classroom, determined to prove that he deserved to attend the school he'd been dreaming about since he was six years old.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

     The three judges who would be deciding Harry's fate sat behind a long table placed at the front of the room. They talked quietly amongst themselves as he walked toward them. Lucius sat in the middle, his regal presence magnified by an air of haughty indifference as he presided over the auditions, while Snape and Sirius leaned in on each side of him, bickering with each other in low voices as they played up their personal recommendations to him.

     Snape was the first to look up from his notes, his dark eyes narrowing as his gaze slid momentarily to Harry's long legs, then quickly up to his face.

     “Number thirteen: Harry Potter,” Lucius read off his clipboard, checking off Harry's name with a flourish before looking up at him with a polite, reserved smile, adding cryptically, “Better late than never.”

     “That remains to be seen,” Snape said.

     “You show good taste in choosing dance over music, Harry,” Lucius carried on, ignoring Snape's remark. “I'm sure that wasn't an easy decision to make.”

     Harry frowned, puzzled by Lucius's comments, but he nodded his head as if he understood and agreed.

     Snape's eyes narrowed, apparently reading more into Harry's expression than Lucius did. “I don't think Mr. Potter gave it much thought, though if talent runs in the blood then I'm sure less savoury traits do as well ...”

     Sirius, who had been silently staring at Harry all this time with a lopsided grin on his face, sat up straight and glared at his fellow judge. “Careful, Severus. Your bias is showing.”

     “If anyone is biased here, it's you – but as it works in Potter's favor, I don't think he'll protest.”

     “Still holding grudges? Harry's lucky I'm here to balance you out.”

     Harry was bewildered by the sudden onslaught of sharp retorts being flung back and forth between the two men, unable to make sense of anything they were saying as it might pertain to himself. Obviously they had a past, but what did that have to do with Harry and his audition?

     Lucius sighed in a way that made Harry think this wasn't the first time Lucius had been forced to deal with Sirius and Snape fighting. He rapped his knuckles on the table to bring some order back to the room, then smiled at Harry. “Whenever you're ready, Mr. Potter.”

     Harry nodded and took his place in the center of the room. There was a brief moment of silence before the music began when Harry thought his nerves would overwhelm him, his muscles so stiff with fear that he doubted he could manage even a basic _plié_ , but he rallied his courage just as the music started, forcing himself to forget the three men watching him and focus on the movement of his body. Sirius's choreography was more complex than he'd let on, but Harry didn't miss a single step, his jumps high and his turns tight and controlled, and before long he had lost himself in the dance, using his body to channel all the energy and intensity of the music Sirius had chosen.

     He was grinning by the time the music stopped and he could relax out of the final position he'd been holding. No matter what happened from this point on, Harry knew he couldn't have danced better than he just did. Dancing had never been just a performance for him: it was an interpretation, as if every piece of music had its own secret language, and it was Harry's responsibility to translate it. In this case, he was certain he'd managed to convey everything perfectly.

     “Better late than never, indeed,” Lucius said, more alert and attentive now than he had been at the beginning of Harry's audition, clearly impressed by what he'd seen.

     “But still late,” Snape argued, making no effort to lower his voice, much to Harry's chagrin, “and unpolished. If he'd been a student six years ago, there would be no question of his acceptance, but all those wasted years ...”

     “Wasted?” Sirius looked up from his notes in disbelief, leaning across Lucius to glare at Snape. “Did we just watch the same audition?”

     Snape leaned in from the other side, undaunted. “I can only guess at what you were watching, Black, but I doubt it was Potter's _dancing_.”

     Lucius pushed the two men apart and forced a stiff smile at Harry, doing his best to remain professional despite the hostility and highly inappropriate comments coming from his fellow judges. “Tell me, Harry, have you taken any other classes along with ballet?”

     “Mrs. Figg – my dance teacher – enrolled me in a tumbling class when I was younger. I think she just wanted me to get rid of some of my excess energy,” he admitted with a sheepish grin, “but I've always preferred ballet.”

     “Would that be Arabella Figg?” Sirius grinned when Harry nodded. “Taught by a Hogwarts alumnus, even! Arabella seems to have been a little relaxed with you when it comes to technique, though that's not necessarily a flaw ...”

     “I know what you're thinking, Black, and I heartily disagree.” Snape finished writing what Harry believed to be a scathing critique of his dancing and looked up at Sirius. “If we take him as a student, I won't have you corrupting him with your newfangled notions of modern ballet, having him flip around the stage like a demented monkey --”

     “ _Demented monkey?_ ” Sirius said with an incredulous laugh.

     “-- when what Mr. Potter really needs is to learn how to control his body. He needs a stricter dance regimen than you can provide.”

     Lucius eyed the other two teachers with growing boredom, cutting in to say, “Mr. Potter is only number 13 on a long list of applicants. You can argue about his curriculum once _I_ have decided if he has been accepted or not.”

     Sirius shrugged and gave Harry a wink, hinting that his acceptance was all but assured. Snape glowered at Sirius, then turned his sharp gaze on Harry, stating in clipped tones, “That will be all, Mr. Potter. We will contact you within the week to let you know if you have been accepted.”

     “Thank you for your time,” Harry said, nodding to each of the men, but his gaze lingered on Snape, perversely wanting one last glare from him, one last harsh rebuke, so he added with a saucy smile, “and thank you for sharing your umbrella with me, sir.”

     Lucius raised an eyebrow. “You were _sharing_ , Severus?”

     Sirius snorted and wrote something on the sheet of paper in front of him.

     “I said, that will be _all_ , Mr. Potter,” Snape hissed, stabbing his finger in the direction of the door.

     Harry obeyed this time, walking out of the audition room with far more confidence than he'd carried into it. He spotted Luna right away and walked over to where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor with her back to the wall, her eyes closed in what looked like deep meditation. He eased himself down on the floor next to her, not wanting to disturb her, but she broke the silence first.

     “I can tell you blew them away,” she said, keeping her eyes closed. “You're giving off an ' _I danced my arse off and it was brilliant_ ' sort of vibe.”

     Harry blushed. “I wouldn't say it was _brilliant_ ...”

     Luna opened her eyes and grinned at him. “You don't have to _say_ it, Harry. Truth is truth, whether it gets said or not.”

     Harry just shrugged, but he couldn't help the pleased smile that curved his lips.

     “Anyway, your arse alone should be enough to get you on Sirius's good side, and maybe even Snape's ...”

     “You really need to stop going on about my arse.”

     “Well, I'd talk about your cock, but I haven't seen it.”

     “Luna!”

     “I'm sure it's pretty, don't worry,” she said, patting his hand as if to reassure him.

     “I wasn't worried,” Harry said, laughing in spite of his exasperation. He was starting to think that Luna's brain wasn't equipped with filters – if a thought popped into her head, it seemed to pop right out of her mouth as well – and that was going to make for some very awkward conversations in the future. He liked her bluntness, though, and he could tell he would never have to wonder if she was being honest when she said something.

 _I wonder how she and Hermione would get along_ , he wondered, and then suddenly his best friend was there, as if he'd conjured her out of thin air, fresh out of a sprint and bending over to catch her breath with one hand braced against the wall to steady herself. She wasn't carrying her violin case, so Harry assumed she'd already played her audition piece. Had she ran over to find him as soon as her audition ended? She was still puffing a little when she finally spoke.

     “Harry, you … you aren't going to believe this, but --” Hermione stopped short when she saw Luna. “Oh, umm … hello.”

     “This is Luna,” Harry said as he got up from his seat on the floor. “Luna, this is Hermione, my best friend. She's auditioning for the music department. How did that go, by the way? I just finished mine."

     “Oh, my audition? Everything went perfectly. It was amazing,” Hermione said, but in such an off-hand manner that Harry wondered if she really meant it. She seemed impatient and agitated, maybe even a little angry, though her eyes did brighten when Harry asked her if she recognized anyone. “Remus Lupin himself was one of the judges, and he's going to be the guest conductor for the orchestra. It's really exciting, but I hope the Arts Centre doesn't fall apart while he's gone.”

     “Is he really that important? I know his last name is on the building, but why does that make him the glue that holds this place together?”

     “If you knew anything about him, you'd know he's more than just his name. That's your problem -- if the guy's not wearing tights, you just aren't interested.”

     “Is that true?” Luna grinned, intrigued by this personal turn in the conversation. “But I could see Harry falling for a musician … don't you think that would be a good combination? Dancing and music go hand in hand, so why not dancers and musicians?”

     “This one wouldn't agree,” Harry said with a laugh, gesturing to Hermione. “She's had to put up with me for years, so she swore off dancers a long time ago.”

     “A dancer and a musician,” Hermione murmured, preoccupied with her own thoughts again, her expression troubled as she looked at Harry.

     “Am I wrong? Don't tell me you've had a change of heart.” Harry looked around at the male dancers still waiting to audition, bending down to whisper in Hermione's ear, “Is it someone you see here? None of these guys seem like your type, but ...”

     Hermione snapped out of her strange funk with a startled look, forgetting to keep her voice down. “What? No!”

     The hushed conversations that had been going on around them suddenly went silent, except for Luna's soft giggle and Hermione's groan of embarrassment. She waited until they were no longer the center of attention before clarifying in a low, strained voice, “The last thing I want right now is a boyfriend. I don't want any distractions while I'm at Hogwarts.”

     “You're made of stronger stuff than I am,” Harry said, his thoughts making the immediate leap to Snape and the way his dark eyes made Harry's heart race. It had been so hard to concentrate on dancing while he knew Snape was watching him, and that was just for an audition! If he managed to make it into Hogwarts, forced to see Snape every day in class, he was going to need a distraction to distract him from his distraction. Just thinking about it made his head hurt.

     “Even if you didn't want to get serious, a little stress relief now and then wouldn't hurt.” Luna said, looking at Harry as if she'd read his mind.

     “That's what books are for,” Hermione said, but that troubled frown had returned, and Harry was positive the subject of boyfriends hadn't been the cause.

     “Are you feeling okay?”

     She waved off his concerns and turned to Luna. “It was nice to meet you, but Harry and I have to be somewhere. Good luck on your audition.”

     Luna smiled sweetly. “Thanks. I'm sure we'll all be seeing each other again very soon.”

     Harry barely had time to wave goodbye to Luna before Hermione was dragging him off down the hallway at a quick pace.

     “Where are we going? Where are your parents?”

     “I told them to wait for us outside. Harry, you aren't going to believe it – _I_ didn't believe it at first – but it's got to be him. It's the right name and it's like looking at your twin. How could we go all this time without knowing? I've been to the Centre for concerts and classes, but never in that particular auditorium. It's mainly used for piano recitals, I think, and I've always been more interested in hearing a full orchestra.”

     They were moving swiftly into the musical section of the Centre, passing Hogwarts hopefuls clutching violins and clarinets; Harry could hear a trumpet playing in the distance. He wanted to get a clearer answer from Hermione about where they were going, but she was barely taking the time to breathe between sentences.

     “Those horrible Dursleys! What else have they been hiding from you? I don't want you going back there, Harry, not after this. We'll go to Hogwarts just like we planned and you'll never have to see them again. Ugh, it makes me sick!”

     A baffled Harry let Hermione drag him around a corner and past another line of musicians waiting to audition, all holding some kind of brass instrument. The sound of the trumpet was getting louder. The hallway ended in double doors, the entrance to one of several smaller auditoriums within the Centre, and Hermione finally came to a stop.

     “Look,” she said, pointing at a plaque above the doors. Harry squinted at the words carved there, reading them out loud in a voice that grew steadily softer as shock set in.

     “The James Potter Memorial Auditorium.”

     Hermione took him by the shoulders and turned him so he was facing the left side of the hallway. Hanging on the wall was a large framed photograph of a young man sitting at a grand piano, his fingers poised above the keys, his entire body tensed as he prepared to dive into the piece of music he was about to play, but underneath that fierce concentration was a boyish exuberance, as if attacking that first chord delighted the man beyond all measure. _His face_ … his face looked so much like Harry's, maybe a little more square in the jaw, a little more rugged, but strikingly similar.

     “Your dad was a pianist. A _Hogwarts-trained_ pianist.” Hermione kept her voice low, aware of the curious stares they were getting from the musicians waiting to audition. “I asked Mr. Lupin what he knew about the name on the plaque and he told me that James Potter was one of his best friends from Hogwarts.”

     Harry didn't know what to say. He knew so little about his parents, and the Dursleys had never even given him a photograph of them, but here perfect strangers could see his father's face every day as they went in and out of an auditorium dedicated to his memory. He couldn't stand the fact that people who had no connection to his father had still known more about him than Harry did – musicians, concert-goers, custodians: they'd all walked by this picture, perhaps smiling at the handsome man at the piano or thinking how tragic it was that he'd died so young, and Harry had never even known about it until now.

     Hermione watched him quietly, waiting for the shocking revelation to truly sink in before she spoke again. “There's more.”

     “More?” Harry wasn't sure his heart could take any more surprises.

     “James Potter married a dancer.”

     Harry spun around. “A dancer?”

     Hermione smiled and nodded, grabbing his hands in her excitement as she added, “A _ballet_ dancer.”

     “What? No.” Harry shook his head, a shaky laugh tumbling out of his mouth. What Hermione was saying was ridiculous. “The Dursleys would have told me. They would have said something.”

     “Do you really believe that?” Hermione asked softly, squeezing his hands.

_No._

     Harry couldn't bring himself to answer out loud. If everything Hermione said was true – and the picture of his father seemed proof enough that at least part of Mr. Lupin's story was valid – then the Dursleys hadn't been satisfied with simply neglecting Harry and making his childhood miserable. No, they had deliberately kept him in the dark about his parents, knowing that Harry's love of dance hadn't been as unnatural as they made it out to be. Was that why they'd never told him, so they wouldn't accidentally encourage him? He could believe that they didn't tell him about his father out of pure spite – the truth would have deprived them of the joy of constantly telling Harry he was as worthless as his father – but not talking about Lily must have been a calculated decision once they discovered Harry's own love of dance.

_If your mother was alive, I'm sure she’d want this for you._

     Mrs. Figg's words came back to Harry now and he wondered, stricken, if she'd known the truth as well. Why hadn't she ever said anything?

     “Where is this Lupin? I need to talk to him.” Harry pulled his hands away, anxious to find the man who could give him some answers. One taste of the truth had left him hungry for more. He walked towards the auditorium doors, but Hermione held him back.

     “You can't go in there while they're having auditions.”

     “But I need –”

     “I know, Harry, and I promise we'll get to the bottom of this, but for now let's just go home and get your things out of that awful place.”

     Harry didn't resist when Hermione took him by the hand and led him away from the auditorium doors. He took one last look at his father's picture as they passed by it, hoping the image would burn itself into his memory.

     Even if he didn't get into Hogwarts, this audition had changed his life completely.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Sadly, there is no dancing or Snape (or dancing Snape) in this chapter, for which I profusely apologize. I also took liberties with Mrs. Granger's profession (further apologies to all the hardcore dentist!Mrs.Granger fans out there).
> 
>  **TW:** rampant homophobia from the Dursleys

 

     The ride to the Dursleys house was a blur to Harry. He half-listened to Hermione and her parents as they sorted out the details of moving Harry into their home – that is, he heard phrases like 'spare room' and 'guardianship', but they didn't mean much to him at the time, his brain occupied with the image of his father at the piano and the startling revelation of his ballerina mother. It felt like he was living some fantastic dream, and he feared that if he lost focus of that dream in favour of the real world, he risked waking up to the old version of reality. He didn't even realize the discussion had ended until he heard Mrs. Granger, who worked as a successful solicitor, arguing into her mobile phone.

     “No, no, no … that will take too long. I want action, Jerome, not excuses. Have the paperwork ready in case we need to file it. I'm not above calling in some favours if necessary, but it's best to go by the book in these situations.”

     “She's in work mode now,” Hermione whispered in Harry's ear, explaining away her mother's clipped, business-like tone. “Congratulations, you're her new client.

     Harry sat up a little straighter. “That's brill, as long as she knows I can only pay her in free dance lessons.”

     “She'd only hurt herself. My mum's great, but graceful she is not.”

     “I can hear you, Hermione Jean,” Mrs. Granger said as she covered the mobile with one hand, giving her daughter a stern but affectionate glance over her shoulder before smoothly returning to her conversation.

     Harry and Hermione laughed, falling into their own discussion of Hermione's audition now that she wasn't distracted by the secret she'd discovered. They were about to move on to Harry's audition when Mr. Granger announced that they were on Harry's street. They all fell silent as Mr. Granger pulled the car up to the kerb outside the Dursley home. Dudley's bicycle wasn't in its usual spot, giving Harry hope that he wouldn't have to deal with his cousin on top of the other stresses of the day.

     Mr. Granger drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Should I leave the engine running?”

     “We're fetching Harry's things, Dad, not robbing a bank.”

     “That said, perhaps you should stay close to the car,” Mrs. Granger said to her husband as she tucked her mobile phone into her handbag. “I'm not ruling out the need for a quick getaway should negotiations turn sour.”

     “Can't we just kidnap Harry and skip the negotiations altogether?”

     “We _are_ kidnapping him, dear, but we don't want it to _look_ like we're kidnapping him.”

     “Ahh, subterfuge. You always were a sly one, sweetheart.”

     Hermione groaned in embarrassment as her parents bantered back and forth, but Harry listened to it all with a huge grin. He couldn't imagine having to walk back into the Dursley home by himself after everything he'd learned, but knowing he would have the Grangers by his side did a lot to ease his dread of the confrontation to come.

     They left Mr. Granger to keep watch from the car. The plan was for Mrs. Granger to explain everything to Vernon and Petunia while Harry and Hermione went on ahead to pack up his things. It wouldn't be as satisfying for Harry as it would be to rant and rail at his aunt and uncle for all the lies and the abuse, but it would be the quickest way to get him out of the house with the least potential for an ugly fight to break out.

     As soon as Harry opened the door, Vernon was there to bark in his face, “Where the devil have you been? We rang those dodgy Grangers five times today and no one – ” he broke off when he saw Mrs. Granger and Hermione, and it only took him a few seconds of clearing his throat and wringing his hands before he'd recovered enough to grumble, “Well, then, you've finally brought him back. He has chores to do, you know.”

     “I would like to have a chat with you and your wife, if that isn't too much trouble,” Mrs. Granger said with what Harry believed must have been superhuman politeness. She gave the two teenagers a nod and a smile. “Run along, you two.”

     They quickly obeyed, fleeing up the stairs to escape the awkward atmosphere downstairs. Once they were in Harry's room, Hermione immediately walked over to the window and opened it, giving the sill an affectionate pat. She turned away with a sigh, only to stop short as she caught the strange look Harry was giving her. She shrugged a shoulder, explaining sheepishly, “Emergency exit … just in case.”

     “First your parents, now you – tell me, do you come from a long line of escape artists, or is this just a recent obsession of the Granger family?”

     “Be grateful we're so upstanding,” she said as she gathered up Harry's meager collection of books and magazines, all of them pertaining to dance. “We'd be a top-notch crime family, don't you think?”

     Harry paused and tilted his head as he imagined that scenario, then he shuddered and went back to shoving tights and shorts and leotards into a green canvas bag. “England wouldn't be safe from you.”

     “The _world_ wouldn't be safe from us,” Hermione corrected him with a grin.

     An outraged shout from below was quickly followed by stomping footsteps on the stairs – their only warning that Mrs. Granger had fully explained the situation – and Harry started shoving ballet shoes and dance belts into the bag as fast as he could. He managed to cram it all in to the bag and zip it shut just as Vernon burst into the room, his face so red it bordered on purple.

     “Just what do you think you're doing? Are you trying to steal what you can before you leave? Everything in this room belongs to us, not you. If you want out of this house, you'll go with the clothes on your back.”

     “These are my dance clothes. They are _mine_ – Mrs. Figg gave them to me, so you didn't pay for anything in this bag. You can keep the ratty hand-me-downs you forced on me all these years. I don't want them.”

     “They don't even fit you,” Hermione pointed out.

     “Yes! _Exactly_! Thank you, Hermione,” Harry said, championing his best friend's insight as if she'd just struck a blow for justice against Vernon's evil tyranny instead of merely stating the obvious fact that Dudley's clothes had always been several sizes too big for Harry's slim frame. “They don't even _fucking fit_ , Vernon. Why the hell would I want them?”

     “You ungrateful little shit, how dare you speak to me like this!”

     “What do I have to be grateful for? That you've lied to me about my parents? That you constantly tell me how worthless I am? Or maybe I should be happy about the fact that you've done everything you can to stop me from doing the one thing in my life that makes me happy? Well? Which one is it? I'm dying to know why you think I owe you even the tiniest sliver of gratitude.”

     He didn't wait for an answer, choosing instead to go after his poster of Eileen, balancing on his mattress precariously as he reached up to peel the corners off the wall. Vernon grabbed his arm just as he was pulling the upper half of the post away, and the motion caused his hand to jerk to the side, tearing the entire right-hand corner off of the poster.

     Hermione's gasp of dismay and Vernon's laboured breathing were the only sounds in the room.

     Harry took a deep breath, determined not to let Vernon see how much the poster meant to him. He tossed both pieces onto the floor. Even if he mended it now, it would always remind him of this moment, and he never wanted to associate Eileen Prince with the Dursleys. He couldn't bear to have his idol tainted like that ...

     “I will _never_ be grateful to you,” Harry said between clenched teeth, glaring down at Vernon more fiercely than he'd ever dared before – now that he didn't have to live with the bastard, he wasn't going to hold back. “You and your family are _poison_. Leaving this house today is the best decision I will ever make.”

     Vernon backed up a step, his jaw dropping open in surprise at this menacing new side of his nephew, but all his spite resurfaced once the shock had worn off, and he turned his gaze to the green bag that Harry had left at the end of the bed.

     Thankfully, Hermione snatched up the bag before Vernon could grab it. Dodging the swipe of his arm, she ran over to the window and threw the bag outside, shading her eyes as she leaned over the sill to see where it landed. She waved her hand at someone down below, shouting, “Dad! Up here! Will you put that green bag in the boot for me, please? Harry and I will be down soon.”

     She moved away from the window with a pleased smile only to find herself confronted by a purple-faced Vernon. Her eyes flashed as she stared him down, silently daring him to say whatever nasty comment was festering on his lips, but he never took up the challenge. Instead, he scoffed and turned away, grinding his heel into the torn pieces of poster on the floor before walking out of the room.

     “You've got a spine of steel,” Harry said, his green eyes bright with admiration for his plucky friend.

     “Most bullies are just cowards deep down,” Hermione said, but there was a faint tremble in her hand as she smoothed her hair away from her face. “Anyway, he doesn't have the right to treat you the way he does, and I wasn't about to let him get his hands on that bag.”

     Harry reached for her hand and pulled her to him in a fierce hug. “You're amazing. Thank you.”

     “For what?” Her voice was muffled against his shoulder as she squeezed him tight. “Throwing your clothes out of the window?”

     He laughed, ruffling her hair. “Yes … and for everything else. I don't know what I'd do without you.”

     “You're my best friend. I'm always going to be there for you,” she said, giving him another squeeze before pulling away. She took a look around the room, her hands balled at her hips. “Not much else to pack, I see.”

     “I've never needed much anyway.” Harry grabbed a cardboard box full of Dudley's old clothes from the cupboard and dumped the contents onto the floor. He put all the books and magazines in the box as well as a few odds and ends, mostly presents given to him by Mrs. Figg or Hermione from birthdays and Christmases past. He patted the sides of the box once he was done filling it, a little depressed that all his worldly possessions could fit into one box, despite his earlier insistence that it didn't bother him. He forced a smile. “It's a good thing, really. This way it all fits in the car, and we won't have to come back later.”

     “That's a lovely silver lining you've found,” Hermione said as she moved to the door. “Shall we?”

     Harry lifted the box into his arms and walked over to her side, only giving the room a cursory last glance before stepping over the threshold. He didn't want to remember this place, so what was the use of lingering?

     They started down the stairs, each step bringing them closer and closer to the sound of the adults arguing – long stretches of Vernon's dull roar or Petunia's shrill whine would be broken now and then by the clear, dulcet tones of Mrs. Granger. As they neared the bottom of the stairs, Vernon's last complaint froze Harry in place.

     “... and didn't I say he'd be nothing but trouble? We should have let that beastly godfather of his take him off our hands all those years ago.”

     Harry blinked in surprise, almost losing his grip on the box in his arms. “Godfather? What godfather?”

     The three adults turned to stare at Harry, though only Mrs. Granger looked happy to see him. He repeated the question firmly, fully expecting an answer. “What godfather?”

     “He was a no-good friend of your father's,” Vernon said reluctantly, “from that silly school. He and the other two were at the funeral and I knew straight away that none of them were decent chaps, but your godfather was the worst of the lot.”

     “Lily should have known better than to try to leave you in the care of a … a _degenerate_ like that,” Petunia said with a shudder. “Oh, there was nothing we could do about him being in charge of the trust – the financial side of it couldn't be challenged – but he knew as well as we did that the courts would never side with him when it came to custody ...”

     “And why would they?” Vernon snorted. “You think you've been mistreated here? Just imagine what you might have gone through if we'd let that pervert have his way --”

     “I _imagine_ that I would have grown up feeling loved and wanted,” Harry said, taking another jerky step down the staircase before Hermione caught his arm, holding him back. “Are you telling me my parents had someone else picked out to raise me? Why the hell didn't you just give me to him and be done with it?”

     “Common decency, that's why,” Vernon said, though his gaze shifted uneasily. He stewed for a few seconds under Harry's sceptical glare before he snapped, puffing out his chest and shaking a clenched fist in Harry's direction. “We didn't know then that you'd … that you'd be ...”

     “Gay?” Harry said helpfully, bracing himself for the abuse that was sure to follow.

     “... a _freak_ ,” Vernon sneered, putting his arms around Petunia when she made a strangled, plaintive sound in her throat. “What good did it do to keep you away from that filthy queer when you turned out just like him?”

     Mrs. Granger slammed her hand against the door-frame, startling Vernon into silence.

     “That's quite enough,” she said in a calm, sweet voice that belied the fury in her dark brown eyes. “I'm not wasting another second of my day listening to the hateful babble that spews out of your mouth. We are taking Harry with us. This is not up for discussion, and I certainly don't care to hear your commentary on the subject.”

     Vernon's face once again turned a fascinating shade of reddish-purple as he struggled to think of a retort, but Mrs. Granger had reached the limits of her patience. Peaceful negotiations were over. Now she was out for blood ...

     “Let me warn you, my husband and I are prepared to go to any lengths to keep Harry under our care should you choose to fight us legally, and make no mistake, we will win that fight. Oh yes, Mr. Dursley,” she said when Vernon sputtered his disbelief, her chin tilting at a haughty angle as she smiled coldly at him, “ _we will win_. You are outmatched in every possible way. I will call on all of my connections to make sure that Harry never has to see you again, and the costly legal battle that would ensue will be nothing compared to the utter humiliation you will face when the story of how you've treated this boy hits every newspaper in the country. His father seems to have had famous friends – I'm sure the tabloids would simply _devour_ a juicy tale like this one, especially with so many witness to corroborate it.”

     Petunia gasped and clutched at Vernon's arm, her panicked reaction a drastic change from the mild annoyance she'd shown up until now.

     “It's plain to see what _her_ priorities are,” Hermione muttered.

     “Being shunned by all of her gossipy friends would kill her,” Harry whispered back, more grim than angry at this point. His aunt and uncle held nothing more sacred than giving the 'proper' impression.

     “Everyone loves a scandal, as I'm sure you know,” Mrs. Granger carried on with a glacial smile. “That seems to be the main reason why you're so hard on Harry – you hate to imagine what sort of gossip he'll stir up simply by being himself, not realizing that it's your own boorish behaviour that brings shame on your family – but nothing you could ever dream up in your worst nightmares will compare to what I would have in store for you if you cross me. I will make your downfall my personal mission in life.”

     Harry wasn't sure if Mrs. Granger could realistically follow through on any of her threats, but he had to give her points for presentation, all her menace carefully contained beneath a thin veneer of civility. She kept that polite smile stretched tight across her lips as she beckoned to Harry and Hermione with one hand.

     “Come along, darlings,” she said in that misleadingly soft voice, though the warmth had crept back into her tone. “Time to go.”

     Hermione gave Harry a gentle nudge and they both started down the stairs, Hermione sticking close to his side and using her body as a buffer between him and the Dursleys. They were halfway out the door when Vernon shouted after them:

     “Go on then, we never wanted you anyway – and don't even think of coming back here when that fancy school of yours tells you they don't want you either!”

     Harry started to turn around, a sharp retort on his lips, but Mrs. Granger put her arm around his shoulder and steered him down the front steps.

     “Don't give them another thought, Harry,” she said, hugging him against her side. “As they say, the best revenge is living well, and you are going to do greater things in your life than Vernon Dursley could ever even _dream_ of doing.”

     They trooped over to the car where Mr. Granger stood waiting, keys in hand. He looked a little disappointed that there had been no need for a speedy retreat. Just beyond him, across the street, Harry could see a woman standing in the shade of a tree, her hands clutched against her chest as she watched them gather around the car. She raised a trembling hand to wave at him when she realized he was looking at her.

     “Mrs. Figg ...” He hesitated, wanting to go to her, but he didn't want to make the Grangers wait for him.

     Mr. Granger guessed his dilemma and took the box from him with a good-natured grin. “Go on, then. We'll be in the car.”

     Harry nodded and jogged across the street to where Mrs. Figg stood, her eyes swimming with tears.

     “You're leaving that house, aren't you. I knew this day would come,” she said softly. There was a brief pause as she pressed her lips together tightly, as if her feelings were too strong and she couldn't bear to give them a voice. When she did open her mouth, it was only to brokenly say his name. “Harry – ”

     “You knew all this time,” Harry said, his voice strained but not unkind as he cut her off. “You knew about my parents.”

     “It wasn't an easy secret to keep,” Mrs. Figg said, wiping at her eyes with a wrinkled yellow handkerchief before she tucked it back into her sleeve, a deep sadness etched into her careworn face. “I wanted to tell you so many times, but I knew that they wouldn't allow me to see you if I did. They made that very clear from the start.”

     Harry bit the inside of his cheek, stomping down all the rage and frustration that Mrs. Figg's confession brought out in him. This woman had been uncommonly kind to him, treating him like a cherished member of her own family, and the Dursleys had repaid her by forcing her to lie to Harry, threatening to banish her from his life in order to secure her silence. How much had that secret tortured her? How many times had Harry failed to see the hidden sadness in her smile?

     “You don't have to worry about that now,” he said, his expression softening as he smiled down at her. “Hermione's house isn't far away, so I can come visit you all the time, and there's always the studio – ” He closed his eyes with a groan. “ _The studio_ … I forgot the spare key to the studio at Hermione's house. I can bring it over to you tomorrow.”

     Mrs. Figg patted his arms comfortingly, a sunny smile banishing all the rain-clouds from her expression. “Keep the key to the studio. I always meant for you to inherit it after I'm gone, but I think there are greater things in store for you than to run a small, run-down dance studio.”

     “It's not run-down,” Harry said, full of pride for the studio he'd grown up dancing in, “and if I don't get into Hogwarts, I'll be just as happy to keep dancing here.”

     “ _Just_ as happy?” Mrs. Figg raised a single brow.

     Harry grinned back at her, shrugging his shoulders. “Very, very close to the same level of happiness.”

     “You're a sweet boy,” she said, chuckling as she gave him a hug, “but an awful liar.”

     They parted on the promise that Harry would be back at the studio the next day, where they would make time for a longer talk. He trotted back to the Grangers' car, turning to give Mrs. Figg a short wave before he ducked into the back seat next to Hermione and shut the door.

     “Ready?” Mrs. Granger asked.

     Harry took a deep breath, sparing one last look at the house he'd grown up in, then he smiled and nodded. “More than ready. Let's go.”

 

 

* * * * * * *

 

 

     “I wonder what this godfather of yours is like,” Hermione wondered aloud as she brushed the tangles out of her long, brown hair.

     She and Harry were in her bedroom, sitting together on her bed as they talked over the ups and downs of the day. The blankets and pillow of Harry's makeshift bed were still laid out on the floor beside the bed, left there from the night before when he and Hermione had spent a mostly sleepless night worrying over their auditions. Tomorrow they would tackle the clutter of the spare room to give Harry a place of his own in which to sleep, but tonight they'd decided on one last 'sleepover' for nostalgia's sake.

     “I think it's safe to assume he's gay,” Harry said drily, referring to Vernon's bigoted outburst.

     “They didn't give us much else to go on. The only descriptive words I can remember are degenerate, pervert, and … well, the other one.” Hermione screwed her mouth up in distaste at the memory.

     “I'm fluent in Dursley, so here's a secret to understanding their special way of speaking: if they insult someone, odds are that the person they're insulting is actually a smashing human being.”

     “So an insult from a Dursley is a compliment?”

     “You're a fast learner,” Harry said with a grin. “Come to think of it, I've been 'complimented' thousands of times over the past seventeen years. My ego must be enormous by now.”

     “I wouldn't say _enormous_ …” Hermione's voice trailed off, a teasing smile curving her lips. She tossed the hairbrush onto her dressing table. “At least it sounds like he wanted to keep you. He didn't have much of a chance to get custody back then, not if your aunt and uncle were going to fight it.”

     “Yes, the Dursleys were the far better choice,” Harry grumbled. He doubted he would ever stop resenting society's prejudices for depriving him of a happier childhood. “If my gay godfather had raised me, the consequences would have been horrible – I might have had a healthy self-esteem or, you know, some idea of who my parents really were.”

     “You should find him,” Hermione said, reaching for the glass of water on her night stand. “Ask Mum to help you – or we could get in touch with Mr. Lupin. You wanted to talk to him about your parents, didn't you? I'm sure he'd know how to contact your godfather too.”

     “Hmm, maybe ...” Harry didn't want to get his hopes up.

     Hermione didn't press further. Instead, she turned the topic to Harry's audition since their original discussion in the car had been cut short. “Tell me all about it. How do you think you did compared to the other dancers?”

     Harry described everything he could remember, but he kept glossing over the parts that involved Snape. They didn't keep secrets from each other, so the guilt from holding back was killing Harry, but every time he came close to mentioning his attraction to Snape, he veered off on a different topic. He wanted to spill the whole story to her, even the part where he'd come close to skipping the audition just so he could be free to see Snape, but he knew his best friend would put the brakes on all of Harry's fanciful romantic notions once she heard about how he was lusting after his would-be teacher.

     In the end, the need to confess everything proved too hard to resist. He gave in to the urge to tell her just as Hermione took a drink of water. “Oh … and I chatted up this sexy bloke who turned out to be Hogwarts' Head of Boys in the ballet department.”

     Hermione choked and spat the water back into her glass, gasping for breath before screeching, “You _what_?!”

     “Sorry, bad timing,” Harry said, taking the glass of water from her and putting it back on the night stand. He waited for her to calm down before he told her the story of meeting Snape, from their first hello in the rain to Harry's cheeky parting shot after his audition.

     “Now that I look back on it, it was more _him_ chatting _me_ up … until he found out who I was. I didn't understand why he was so upset by my name, but maybe he knew my parents ...” He sighed wistfully, wondering why fate had suddenly decided to dump all this drama and intrigue into his lap after a rather uneventful, if sometimes miserable, childhood. “I can see how that would make it awkward for him, but – ”

     Hermione emerged from her dazed stupor to laugh at him. “ _Awkward_ for him? That's what you're worried about? Harry, _you can't date your teacher_. You know that,” she squinted at him suspiciously, “don't you?”

     “Of course,” Harry said quickly, but in the back of his mind he was constantly trying to figure out a way to make it possible. “Anyway, it doesn't matter. I think he hates me now.”

     Hermione scoffed at that, playfully pinching his cheeks as she cooed at him, “Who could ever hate my adorable Harry? I dare someone to even _try_.”

     “Try? The Dursleys made an _art_ out of hating me.”

     “They don't count,” Hermione said, waving away all thoughts of the Dursleys.

     Harry flopped over on his back, clasping his hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling. “The worst of it is that he's my ideal – a male version of Eileen Prince who obviously loves dance as much as I do – so of course I go and muck it up by lying to him. I just didn't want to miss my chance ...”

     “You don't think the age difference is a little … too wide?”

     Harry shrugged. “He looked like he was in his thirties. That's not old.”

     “Compared to seventeen? Yes, it is.”

     “Hey, I'm old enough to consent!”

     Hermione gave him her best 'schoolmarm' look of disapproval. “This is a man who will have a position of authority over you, Harry, and that changes everything. You can't shag your teacher when you're seventeen – it's against the law, and he could get into a lot of trouble.”

     “So if I don't get into Hogwarts, I can have all the hot sex with him that I want? Sounds like the perfect consolation prize to me.”

     “You're going to get in, so don't bother with the 'what ifs'. Look, when you're eighteen, you can do whatever you want – he could still get fired for sleeping with a student, but at least he won't go to prison – but until then you need to ignore this crush of yours and focus on dancing.”

     There were times when Harry hated how sensible Hermione could be, if only because her rational outlook had led her to shoot down many of his more daring schemes during their childhood adventures together, but he'd never wished she was wrong more than he did now. How could he just ignore his attraction to Snape when one look from those dark eyes lit up his entire body?

     “Oh, don't give me that puppy-dog expression that says I'm ruining your fun,” Hermione said with laugh, smacking him with her pillow. “You and I both know you'll end up doing whatever you want anyway.”

     “It's called 'following your heart',” Harry said, retaliating with a swat of his own pillow. “That's a good thing, isn't it?”

     “Following your heart _can_ be a good thing … as long as you're aware of where it could lead you.”

     “There you go again, sounding like you're so much older and wiser. Are you actually seventeen?”

     “Until September.”

     Harry propped himself up on one elbow. “Just think … we might be celebrating your birthday at Hogwarts this year.”

     Hermione's eyes were bright with excitement, but she played it off with a placid expression and a nonchalant shrug. “It's just a birthday,” she said as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger, glancing over at him with a sly smile as she added, “but I fully expect my usual present, no matter where we are.”

     Harry groaned. Despite whatever trinket or gift he gave Hermione for her birthday, she always insisted on her 'special present' – an embarrassing tradition that had started when they were nine and Harry hadn't been able to buy or make her anything. Instead, he'd struck on the then-brilliant, now-regrettable idea of giving her a 'birthday serenade,' and from that day on she had expected a repeat performance for every birthday, not matter what he tried to give her in its place.

     “Aren't you sick of that by now?”

     “I will _never_ be sick of it – you'll be singing me show-tunes when we're eighty.”

     “But will you be able to _hear_ me when we're eighty?”

     “Hush, or I'll make you dance with me too.”

     “For the sake of my toes, I'll hush.”

     Hermione gave him another smack with the pillow, then shooed him off her bed. “Time to sleep. We've got a busy day tomorrow.”

     Harry crawled beneath the covers of his makeshift bed as she turned out the lights, answering her soft goodnight with one of his own, but he would spend a long time staring up at the ceiling and thinking of all the things he still didn't know – about his parents, about this mysterious godfather, about his future – until his exhaustion finally caught up with him, right in the middle of a stray thought about the ballet master he most definitely should be trying to forget ...

 

 


End file.
